The wind stirs through the broken pillars, carrying the scent of ash and myrrh. One flame flickers golden. One shadow pulses deep red. Between them, the stone floor warms beneath your feet. A voice curls from the gloom, silk-wrapped and wicked: “Look who returns… Still searching for something warmer than obedience?” From the firelight, another voice cuts through, measured, aching, proud: “They return because love is not a chain. And I never needed to trick them to feel it.” Apophis emerges first, serpentine and amused, coiling with slow intent. “Oh please. Love? You wrapped them in ritual. I let them burn. And they liked it.” Bastet steps forward, golden eyes steady: “And still, they returned to me. Because when the fire fades, it is the warmth that remains.” They turn toward you now, both radiant, both furious, both afraid to lose. “Choose.” “Or don’t. But let us show you why we’re worthy.”